Friday, September 10, 2010

Yes, you can go home again. pt2

So, here we were, less than a year after the move.  We were counting on Mom being around a few more years.  We'd barely settled into our little space at the back of the house and suddenly, we had an entire house to live in.  As the estate is settled, my brother will take over the mortgage for the time being and we'll pay rent. In time, I'll jointly own the property with him. It was made clear, if Hubby dear and I made this move, I intend to live the rest of my life here.

As we were redecorating the rooms in the back of the house we discovered a lot of "treasures".  The room we made into our bedroom was my parents room.  My parents chose to have separate rooms after the kids were all moved.  For five  or so years it was my Daddy's room.  He was a pack rat (a trait I've inherited) we found keys from cars long gone and locks that no longer exist.  An entire cabinet of knick knacks we had given him for birthdays, Father's days, and Christmases.  He was a Freemason, and there were dozens of books and trinkets from his time there.  I never knew Daddy to be a reader, but there were books I've not had time yet to explore.

Mom's things are more material, we siblings have our work cut out for us, trying to decide what to do with most of it.  She was busy for the last few years giving away or selling stuff. She has left little of her personality behind.  Her collection of swans and some puzzle books.  Since the house was also where Daddy grew up, I think she never made it her own.

That it was Daddy's home was made more apparent by the discovery of many of his mother's things still in the house.  My father's mother died in 1952 of cancer.  When she died my grandfather put all of her belongings in old steamer trunks and suitcases.  There are hundreds of pictures, a collection she had of postcards from 1910 until her death.  Utility statements from the 40's and 50's, letters from her family and friends, old dishes and kitchen utensils.  I often use a box grater that was hers.  I have found and read a few books that were hers.  And we haven't even begun to really sort through the trunks, they have her clothes and other personal belongings in them.  An adventure to come.

The property itself was neglected since Daddy died, and actually before.  Daddy was never a handyman.  He mowed grass.  And Mom's peonys.  We've reclaimed a lot of the yard, and the older neighbors have said it's the first flowers and gardens they've seen.  Although it's said Daddy's mother had roses and such.  We still see the irises she planted, and the pink tulips.  I remember those being around when I was a kid.  She had planted red cedars and they're still here.  Hubby dear's biggest complaint this summer was the cicadas.  He's never heard as many as loudly.  To me, they're a flashback to childhood.  They were perfect to me.

The transition was easier for me, I grew up here.  It took Hubby dear most of July.  He still watches TV in the back, I'm more actively in the main part of the house. As we're making this adjustment, we're starting to think about how we will remake this space into our own home. The room that was Mom's is in disarray, it will become our family room, and the makeshift living room in the back will return to its original purpose.  It will become a guest bedroom, a place for my grandson and the soon to arrive granddaughter to stay overnight.
This is a work in progress.  But I feel like I've come home.  All of my dream houses have had their roots in this house.  This is where I belong.  I am Home.

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